Doyle

Passenger seat. Doyle could feel the faint hum of the engine. Each crack in the road. Every manhole cover. The trees blurred by. It was fall, Doyle did not care for fall too much. The orange was nice at first. But each day he grew tired of it.

Jovial shrieks from the backseat. The baby was laughing.

Doyle looked back.

His brother was tickling the kid. He was good with them like that. The child tried to evade. Failed. Woefully. Each bend, and attempt at cover gave him a new angle to tickle, seemingly an even more ticklish part of the body.

Doyle smiled.

His brother didn’t.

Doyle watched his game last week. He’d won. He’d played well. Game sealing shot.

It was as though he had a tape recorder and was just watching the film back. Nothing felt fresh. Rehearsed. It laid on Doyle’s mind. More than intended. He could be in the centre of something, the very eye of the storm. He held the same face.

The laughter died down.

Gavin looked out the window.

Same expression. The same blank expression.

His hands were clasped.

“Pancakes?”, their mother asked from the driver’s.

“It’s five”, Doyle responded. Helping who?

Gavin, leaning forward in his seat and facing forwards “I dunno, I could go for some right now”

“Doyle?”, his mother said. Her voice clearly glad she got a vote in her favour.

“For sure”, he said.

The corner of Gavin’s bottom lip rose ever so slightly.

It left him as he faced the window once more.

The car kept going. Mother turned down the radio, she didn’t like when the hosts decided to chat instead of play the bloody music. The sky was blue. Mostly. Doyle liked the little reddish streaks.

“Grandma seemed well”